


A Man who was Gonna Die Young

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alcohol, Bathtubs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Music, M/M, No Sex, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 02:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1287082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>So baby when you bow your head tonight</i><br/>Could you tell the Lord I've changed my mind,<br/>And with you I'd like to live forever."</p><p>After a hunt goes awry, Dean takes temporary residence in a lake house to regroup. Set ambiguously after 9x11.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man who was Gonna Die Young

They were dead because of him.

It was supposed to have been open and shut –after all, they’d done this dozens of times before. Why would _this_ be any different? According to the local papers, five people had gone missing within the last three weeks, their bodies eventually washing up along the banks of the Flint with their throats practically ripped out. None of the victims ha any general relationship to one another. By absolute chance, they had been plucked from the streets and slaughtered in the same manner, never to see their families again.

They had chalked it up to a nest of vamps terrorizing the townspeople of Dougherty, and Dean chose to take the case alone. It had taken a _massive_ amount of convincing on his part to keep Sam from tagging along, and _maybe_ threats had been made regarding personal possessions or bodily harm, but they finally came to an end result. Dean was to be gone a week. Sam was to stay at the bunker looking into _anything_ to locate Gadreel.

Castiel was still in the wind. No shocker there.

Until the second day after his arrival, everything progressed smoothly. He went through the motions –visited the coroner, interviewed witnesses, located the one spot where apparently _all_ the bodies had washed up, and began searching for any feasible suspects. Turned out a group of five had set up camp inside a Baptist church parallel to the river, maybe half a mile in distance through the woods. No one in the area had suspected any dubious activity. They had no reason to.

Before the night he decided to take them down, at least. It should have taken ten minutes at the minimum. It ended with three dead young girls, two headless vamps and the cops on his ass all the way to the county line. They hadn’t waited to dispose of their victims, instead opting to slit their throats _on the spot_ , and _then_ tried and tear him limb from limb.

Something happened. All he could remember of the event was a bright orange light and the reddened mark on his arm searing to life. Blood was splayed across every stretch of fabric and skin on his body –whose it was, he didn't know. Didn’t care. The three survivors had vacated the premises and sirens blared in the every shortening distance.

So he fled the city, headlights unlit as he blazed down Route 82 and crossed onto 300, hoping to anything listening that he could get out of there without the authorities throwing him behind bars for a crime they could actually pin on him. It wouldn't be the first time, but it was still a road he didn’t want to venture down again. Not when no one was there to bail him out. Willingly, at least.

Somewhere along the highway was a bridge illuminated by permanent Christmas tree fixtures on the concrete railings –beyond that, an unlit parking lot belonging to a closed corner store. A dirt road led to a clearing behind trees; in the darkness, they wouldn't see the trail of dust Baby kicked up. The cops passed his temporary hiding spot and within the next five minutes and three passes later, the sirens ceased to exist. They’d be on the lookout for the next few days, but for now, he was safe.

Going back into town would be a nightmare. His only options were to either stay parked out back and hope no one decided to happen upon him, or squat in someone’s home until the situation blew over. He opted for the latter. At least there he could dispose of the evidence.

A quarter of a mile in the direction he came was a small cut-through called Smoak Bridge, at least a dozen houses running along the lake’s edge. All but two were occupied, indicated by the multitude of cars parked in their paved driveways. The first he saw had a tree through the roof and tarps strapped down everywhere possible –it wasn't even in the ballpark for consideration.

The second caught his eye. A two story square-shaped home, white-painted porch wrapping around the entire property with a shed situated towards the back edge. No lights were on, no cars were visible, no paved anything –it was perfect. Hopefully the owners, if there _were_ any, wouldn't be home for a week. Carefully he pulled in and maneuvered the Impala out of sight from any passersby, shutting off the engine before anyone came outside to investigate, especially at that time of night. Tomorrow he would make himself at home as humanly possible –tonight, he settled himself on the couch in the living room, still dressed in blood-drenched clothes. He slept.

-+-+-+-

Sunlight streamed in through closed eyelids eight hours later, beams attempting to warm the semi-frigid air inside of the residence. Realization hadn’t yet dawned on him as he began his new morning routine, namely, figuring out what was inside the lake house. Inside the sparsely decorated living quarters was a TV and the now probably bloodstained couch, with two wicker chairs sitting adjacent, one facing the covered patio. He left the door sitting wide open the night before; a snake was probably hiding somewhere under furniture.

The kitchen wasn't anywhere near as stocked as he would have liked; only an untouched loaf of bread, a few jars of canned foods and three lukewarm bottles of water sat on the shelves. The bread hadn’t molded yet –the residents must have cleared out within the last few days. But, they left behind their stash of Maker’s Mark and Jim Beam. Those would be for later.

Down the hall were three bedrooms and two bathrooms, all sheets tucked in, all towels under the sinks. The water pressure worked. He didn't bother to look at himself in the mirror, not now, at least. It would only be a distraction. He knew blood soaked his skin, he didn't need anything to tell him that. Looking would only force himself to admit the inevitable. That last night, he had _failed_ once again.

His next journey was the upstairs loft, only accessible through a pull-down stairwell with the string barely reachable, even at his height. The owner must have been _massive_. Once ascended, he spotted a queen-sized poster bed pointed towards a window, the lake and the old bridge visible in the far off distance. A dock resided on the property past the grassy yard, a small paddleboat tied off to the side; oars were resting nearby. To the right of the window past the disregarded snakeskin was a claw-footed tub, complete with overhead shower installment. The dresser nearby came up with nothing.

This would be perfect.

Blood rolled off his skin fifteen minutes later in that same tub, dying the water every shade of pink imaginable. No amount of soap could rid his skin of what he felt was still there; scrubbing himself raw didn't help the ache that had begun to bruise his heart, even after the evidence had long since flowed down the drain. Standing under the cooling spray, he watched his feet. No thoughts immediately came to mind; pure blankness.

After dressing in a fresher set of clothing, Dean made his rounds on the property, making sure his car was properly hidden, attempting to clean whatever evidence he had tracked in in the hours prior, even washing his shirt and pants in the cold waters of Lake Blackshear. They would need a good bleaching once he left Georgia. _Hopefully_ they were salvageable –from the looks of it, it would be a miracle if he didn't have to burn them just because of the memories.

By noon, the formerly pristine blue sky was replaced with graying clouds, a sudden steady rain dropping the temperature from a comfortable seventy-degrees to nearly fifty-five in minutes. The sky was mourning, he mused silently, sitting under the patio awning and listening to the pitter-patter of water cascading down. If it wasn't for the increasing thunder, he could have fallen asleep under the monotony.

Instead, he ventured inside and proceeded to drink his way through half of the lone bottle of Jack he found in a corner cabinet, hoping to drown out whatever remnants of sane thought he had left. At some point, the grandfather clock in the doorway chimed three-thirty, dragging him from the alcohol-induced stupor he had instilled on himself. And in one second of intelligent thought, he had the absolutely bright idea to _call_ someone. Not Sam though, anyone but Sammy. He had already crossed that bridge and jumped off, he didn't had the capacity to pull himself back up to the shore right then.

Ignoring the thought of his _brother_ , he thumbed through his contacts and hit a random number. Anyone would do, just as long as he could spout off the nonsense burning the tip of his tongue. Sprawled out on the leather couch, he stared up at the ceiling; the call went to voicemail.

“Hey, uh… List’n, I uh… fuck’d up real good this time.” He swallowed hard, covering his eyes from the storm raging outside. “Some girls got kill’t cause’a me, couldn’ get to ‘em ‘n time. ‘M stuck in this house outside’a Cordele, Georgia. Jus’… Could y’come find me? ‘M scared I might d’somethin’ crazy if ‘m alone. I und’rstand if y’don’t wanna. Jus’…Sorry f’callin’.”

He made it through half of his glass before unconsciousness once again seized him.

The gnawing pain of hunger and nausea forced him awake three hours later, along with the feel of someone’s hand on his cheek. He knew that hand –he had memorized the feel over the years, every whorl of fingerprints, every crease within the palm. The heat of it, the stone hidden within. “Hey, Cas…” he mumbled groggily, leaning subconsciously into the touch as fingers stroked up through his hair, trailing back down to his pulse.

“You’re in shock,” was Castiel’s reply. _What, no salutations? No proverbial_ ‘ _Hello, Dean?_ ’ He missed it. “You’re also drunk. Is that the only reason you called?”

“Y’know that’s not true…” he sighed. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he rolled onto his stomach, two seconds after learning how _bad_ of an idea that was. Castiel had understood somehow and dragged him to his feet, hauling him towards a nearby bathroom and allowing him to empty the bile from stomach into the toilet. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before; majority of what was left was the whiskey that had failed to knock him out in the first place. The entire time, the Angel rubbed his back in an attempt at comfort, wrapping a cold washrag around his neck after he finished dry heaving.

He didn't feel any better afterwards. Castiel, bless him, had enough sympathy to let the questions go unsaid until he got his breathing settled once again, heart slowing to a regular pace. They both leaned against the sink cabinet shoulder to shoulder, staring at the tacky pink-and-white wallpaper on the opposite wall. Shivers began to wrack his body; Castiel shrugged off the trench coat he had grown used to in the last few months and draped it over his front, attempting to stave off the cold. Dean held it tight and motioned closer to his friend.

The Angel, arm around his shoulder, stroked down his arm under the coat. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asked solemnly, eyes still locked on the wall.

“Shoulda never come down here,” he started off, words still slurred from fatigue; the alcohol had worn off significantly, the numbness no longer seeping into his bones. He felt _everything_. Every bit of cold, pain, _emotion_ he had come to know within the last week –everything crashed into him at once. “Shoulda stayed with Sam. Wouldn't’ve gotten those girls killed…”

“Their deaths were not your fault.” Castiel stroked the inside of his elbow, linking his free fingers with the hand on Dean’s thigh. “You were doing what you felt was right.”

“I didn’ try hard enough.” He shook his head. “If I woulda gotten there sooner—.”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference, Dean.” Castiel cast his eyes towards him, squeezing their joined hands tight. “You cannot be responsible for what you can’t control. Your intentions were in the right place.”

A shaking sigh. “Y’didn’t see their faces, man… They were screaming for help, vamps had ‘em right there, and they just… Just… I couldn’t stop—.”

Castiel shushed him with a kiss to his temple. It was the gentleness of the action, the chasteness of his touch that finally _broke_ him. On the bathroom floor of a house in the middle of nowhere Georgia, Dean Winchester collapsed into the arms of an Angel and cried until his voice went hoarse, until the tears refused to fall and all that was left was a soured taste in his mouth and dry, nerve-wracking sobs that echoed off the walls. All the while Castiel held him, allowing him to bawl into his shoulder, rubbing soothing circles into his shoulders.

To every choked gasp of guilt, he replied, “It was not your fault,” and sealed it with a kiss. “You’re a good man. You did everything out of love.

“Your heart is always in the right place.”

-+-+-+-

The next time his consciousness came to light, he found himself half submerged in the claw foot tub upstairs, Castiel holding him from behind, arms draped around his stomach and occasionally drawing designs in the bare skin there. Somehow they had both ended up naked, and for once, he didn't mind. Relishing it, he curled back into the Angel’s hold, sinking into the warmth of the water surrounding both their bodies.

Occasionally, the faucet dripped, breaking the stagnant silence in the room. Rain was still falling. The sky was sympathetic. Every once in a while, he felt Castiel’s fingers caress his face, wiping away the stray tears that still fell. Year’s worth of emotion had poured free at once –coming down would take time, effort. “How are you feeling?”

Dean sighed through his nose. “Like I got hit by a train.”

If he had a quip towards his answer, he let it slide, settling for running a hand down the length of his torso. He could get more drunk off his touch than the whiskey any day, he found himself thinking. “…You didn’t have to come, y’know,” he mumbled, tucking his knees under the water. The cold was becoming omnipresent. Maybe they needed to find the heater. “You coulda just left me here…”

“I wanted to.” Castiel kissed his ear, humming contently and tightening his grip. “I was with an acquaintance. You needed me more.”

For the first time since waking up there, he opened his eyes upon the realization that he didn't know _how_ to respond. Unbridled affection was never his strong suit; how was he supposed to react? Everyone who had ever shown him any form of affection left him in the cold, wondering if he was _worthy_ of them in the first place. And yet, Castiel had never left him, not really. Sure there had been times where he thought he was dead or worse, but he always came back.

What made him worthy of _that_? Of that kind of dedication, that kind of admiration? The thought tightened his throat; Castiel pressed his lips to his hair, carding fingers through the short strands. “I feel old, man.”

“Dean, you’re no—.”

“I’m _old_. Hunter’s aren’t supposed to be my age. Most of them die before they hit thirty, and hell, _I’m_ not supposed be alive in the first place. I wake up and my back hurts, my knees creak, and I waste my life doing a job that only hurts more people than helps. What am I supposed to do with that?”

“You make the best of it. Like you always have.” Castiel held him closer, sighing into his neck. “You’ve lived through more in thirty-five years than any one person should in a lifetime. But I wouldn’t constitute that as being _old_.”

He snorted. “You’re saying age does that?” Castiel nodded against him. “Dude, then you’re _ancient_.”

“That’s not the point.” He could have _sworn_ he heard a laugh. “I’m trying to s—.”

“I know, man.” Dean shifted closer, touching their toes together. “It’s just… I’m tired of going through the motions. Of the fighting, of the same bullshit every day, and where does it get me?”

Castiel didn't reply at first – no answer was necessary, at least in his train of thought. “But you still feel the need to fight.”

Closing his eyes to the barely lit room, he nodded. “I don’t know what t’do if I stop. I mean… I don’t know anything else. I can fix up a car and make a mean burger, but—.”

“You’re smarter than you let yourself think. I wish you would see yourself in a more positive light.”

 _But how_? To that he didn't respond, instead leaning his head back onto his friend’s shoulder, nosing the pale skin of his neck. Castiel rested against him in return, his smile pressed against his forehead. “How can you… How can you just… _love_ me?” The word tasted foreign on his tongue. His heart skipped normally at the very _thought_ of the word; now, it was threatening to jump into his throat.

“I just do.” His tone was nonchalant. “I feel I always have, and always will.”

“So… What’ll you do when I… y’know, die? I mean, it could be tomorrow, or in a few years, or…”

“Then I’ll go with you.” A choked whimper escaped his throat. Even biting his lip couldn't stifle the sudden wave of emotion flooding through him.

“With everything I’ve done… What’s there to say that I’ll even go to Heaven?”

“Everything you’ve ever done, Dean, you’ve done out of a love deeper than most can comprehend. Your soul is pure and nothing, not even your Mark can change that. I’ll be the one to take you there myself.”

He couldn't help it. Another line to tears streaked from closed eyes, the Angel kissing them away without a second thought. “…I don’t deserve you.”

“You do. Out of everything in the world, you deserve love. And I’ll always be here to give it to you.”

“Cas, I…”

He pressed a finger to his lips, kissing the wetness away until Dean responded in kind, breaking apart for the sake of air. They locked gazes for the first time that day. “You should rest, you’re exhausted.”

That time, he didn't fight it.

-+-+-+-

He was lying on his stomach underneath the sheets of the poster bed hours after, still naked as the day he was born. When did he even pass out _that_ time? The rain had stopped, he noticed; outside the window to his front, the moon shown clear in the sky, a stray cloud finishing its pass over and disappearing in the breeze. It must have been past midnight; no clocks were present on any of the desks. Even his _watch_ was missing –what had Castiel done with that anyway? And where were his clothes in the _first_ place?

Speaking of Castiel, where was _he_? Body still heavy with sleep, he managed to roll over onto his side, spotting the bare back of his friend, seated at the side of their bed. Initially he would have asked what he was doing –upon hearing what sounded like _words_ , he stopped himself.

He was _praying_.

And not just _any_ run of the mill prayer, one that specifically mentioned his name. He was praying for _him_. He didn't stop him; he could bring himself to. Nothing could. The last words he heard before the night claimed him were, “Please, I love him.

“Keep him safe.”

 

_I put the rage in a river, the roll in a thunder_  
_but you kept me from goin' under,_  
_when that current got too heavy._  
_I always thought I'd be a heap of metal_  
_in a cloud of smoke, foot stuck to the pedal._  
_Sold for parts like a junkyard rusted-out Chevy._  
_Fear, I've had none._  
_What the hell made you want to love_  
_a man, who was gonna die young?_

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "A Man who was Gonna Die Young" by Eric Church.
> 
> I really shouldn't've written this listening to sappy love songs cause I'm pretty sure I cried.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
